A Man Called Mr Flowers

When everyone in the house is crazy,
only the sane seem like fools. So it was
when the financial addiction spread
everywhere. Then everyone who was not taking
his daily dose of heroin or cocaine became
the fringe-dweller, the oddball, the brake
on progress, the party-pooper at the greatest
no-cash-down, how-to-spend-it shindig that
our planet has ever known. Debt piled on
debt everywhere: in households, corporations,
public finances and international deficits,
in magnitudes that had never been even
glimpsed in the most creative imaginations
before.
James Cumes.

There were so many troubled times and he had been so ashamed of some of the disasters
which had overtaken his life; that it was hard to remember that in fact many of the times were hysterically funny, that spilling out of clubs at dawn and perching on the top of buildings watching the sunrise had been fun. It was just that it ended so badly; and by badly he meant badly. The triumphant twists of story; the slow trudge of recovery; the flicker of naked flesh and the piercing of the mysteries; he meant good. He really had meant good. Richard had been the youngest, most handsome, most adorable of our crew; and he died before middle age had a chance to transform him. On the streets of London, behind towering solid buildings which held the secrets of centuries; here was our best time. We were all expat Australians, our little gang, partying in the bar at the London School of Economics; taking it for granted that we lived around the corner from the British museum and that we were essentially at the heart of the civilisation which had created our own country. At the heart physically, or geographically, perhaps, but not at the heart of the English: who couldn't have cared less whether we lived or died; not then, not now; as they clung to their little self-perceptions of superiority.

We didn't have working visas and worked out how to survive as best we could, picking up glasses; cleaning. It was working as a cleaner in London that forced on me the decision: I'm going to live or die by the typewriter; I'm not doing this shit anymore. I was already 30, a youthful 30, having never grown up; having embraced the role as eternal party boy and leader of the dance. If I had one regret when I sobered up it was that I hadn't been a better example to all those who joined us in the merry dance; always smashed, often drunk, feeling fabulous by midday and hanging by dusk, and they had pealed off one by one: dead. Brian Flowers as he claimed his name was this fabulously eccentric queen zipping around London in a bright red BMW convertable with his airdale sitting in the front seat.

We met through Blair; who had once been just another boy around the Cross but who had always been more ambitious, more determined to succeed, than the rest of us. For most of us: the tragic destiny was all we ever thought we would achieve; moments of drug fuelled intimacy in between the bouts in jail and the tragic ends; so many tragic ends. But Balir had gone to London and "married well"; and a little network of real estate queens meant the house and the boy Tony was very nice; and everything was substantial.

All I had was a beaten up typewriter and a trail of unpublished manuscripts and a long history of unpredictable chaos. And so it was that I came to meet Brian, who wore silver hair pieces and always had more money than made sense, flashing it around in the capital with no intention of returning home. I was looking for work and joined him in the schedule, dashing in and out of buildings spraying freshener furiously so the customers knew we had been and thought it had been cleaned, picking up the obvious and moving right along, block after block on a healthy contract. Somehow he had wangled the cleaning contract through Blair's network; and zipped around London with the buckets and mops poking out of the BMW's boot, the airdale imperial in the front seat, the roof down, even the subdued London light reflecting off his magnificent hair.

It was then, turning 30 with nothing to show for it but an unhappy relationship and volume after volume of unpublished probably unpublishable stories; the dream of being a writer in cruel ashes; with no property, no possessions beyond the clothes I was wearing, nothing in the bank account; that I decided the ignominy of these rotten jobs, in a culture which demeaned physical labour, was it, at an end. Too old for a sugar daddy, the rentboy days long gone; there was no other way forward but to pursue the written word, wherever it led. The freelance journalism escalated; and in some kind or unkind way that created its own path; the endless interviews, the deadlines; the jumbled chaos of selling onself, here at the moment when strange destinies turned on a point; here where life changed forever, for the better, he picked out a lower path beneath the failed dreams; for that most ancient of reasons, survival.

And Brian, who taught me all sorts of things in his mad queen way, was arrested and deported back to Australia, where he was wanted on robbery charges; and suddenly the reason for all that money became clear. I could never imagine him in Pentridge jail; and never saw him again; although I always expected he would reappear at some point. Various details filtered back to us: left to mop up the cleaning business. And everything fell to pieces. The red convertable BMW and the imperial airdale went to new homes. But what I wondered the most, more than anything, waking up in the middle of the night pestered by ridiculous thoughts, was: how the hell was he going to cope in jail with all those hairpieces; which one was he going to wear for which occassion, and would he rather be bashed than bald?

THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2008/02/01/2151665.htm

The divisions in the federal Opposition over the planned formal apology to the Stolen Generations are intensifying.

When treasury spokesman Malcolm Turnbull was vying for the Liberal leadership last November, he was asked on ABC's Radio National his thoughts on apologising.

Mr Turnbull confirmed that he would support Labor in saying sorry and made his views clear about former prime minister John Howard's refusal to apologise.

"That was an error clearly, we should have said sorry then," he said. "Getting into semantics about regret versus sorry - that's a waste of time."

Now he says his position is unchanged and is canvassing it within the party.

"I'm talking to a lot of my colleagues about the issue, naturally, and we'll be having a further discussion about it next week," he said.

But Opposition Leader Brendan Nelson disagrees with him and is still refusing to support an apology, at least until he sees it in writing.

It is the wording of Labor's planned apology that has Dr Nelson and Indigenous affairs spokesman Tony Abbott reluctant to support it.

The apology will be made on February 13 and the Liberal Party plans to discuss the issue next week.

Trapped In The Trees

"Sometimes I still felt that I had fetched up on the edge of the world. The wintry light slanting on to the flat, colourless landscape; the moan of the wind, the shriek of sea-birds and the melancholy boom of the foghorn far out at sea all sent a shiver through me...it was all horizon: the level land, the mudflats, the miles of marshes, the saltings, the grey, wrinkled sea."
Nicci French.

It was all planned. The spot had been picked out; the canal that was the Cooks River, the city's most polluted waterway. The mudflats, the garbage strewn along its edges, the busy public toilets of alternate lives; the whites of the school sports teams playing in the afternoon, the aching loneliness that was imprinted in the trees along the bank. A long time ago, when we were all young couples making progress in our lives, steps into adulthood, buying our first homes, struggling and loving our first children, suddenly parents after a lifetime of ease. Bruce and Lindsay held birthday parties for their children just near there; and their backyard ran almost down to the water's edge. Desperate for human contact, what would happen if he knocked on that door, tried to explain that he had once known the house, had been to several parties there. Bruce and Lindsay. They would never have heard of them. There would have been half a dozen owners since; but he always wanted to knock on some stranger's door; seek help as if from the village priest. These dreadful psychic moments haunted him; it was all planned, a couple of grams of smack, the bottle of Black Douglass, the beers, the big fat joint, he would sit under the tree as the children played; and his end would come.

That was where he had got to. If it wasn't going to happen by accident, he would do it on purpose. The last overdose, they had to go next door to call the ambulance because the phone had been cut off. The children were crying in the lounge room, the ambulance officer slapping him around as he lay on the floor, he looking blearily up, the bloke saying: mate, you've got to get yourself together, you've got children. And he replied: they'd be better off with the life insurance. And then the ambulance officer said: ask your kids whether they want the money or their dad. And that heart breaking moment cut through to him in a way that nothing else had. He went back to meetings and his life slowly turned around; his sweat laden clothes stopped smelling of addiction sweat; and out of all the diseased chaos of his mind, things started to recover.

He had thought everything was his fault, if only he got things together then everything in their lives, their relationship, their children, the finances, everything would fall back together. But that wasn't the case. Getting clean was garlic to the vampire; the nest of entities that was her evil force reacted as if it had been scalded. And the disaster that was the core of his life shifted gear in every possible sense.

Years later he flew over that exact same spot where he had planned to kill himself; a light aircraft, yet another assignment, and he looked down at the rich patterning of the Sydney suburbs; and he couldn't imagine, only a few years before, how desperately bad things had got, how desperately sad he had become, how the trains that featured at the end of their long slide in accommodation standards echoed so lonely through the giant nights, his spirit trapped in the trees and the end too close, his sick self. The waves had entered in his childhood, when all was adventure and discovery; but now, he had failed utterly in everything he touched and it was time to go. Born defective, there was nothing that could be done to fix his ailing psyche. He knew it was time, that ailing little thing couldn't last any longer; the sacred past had abandoned him long ago. But instead of death by the side of the canal, slumping as the smack took effect, another life altogether emerged from the ashes. And he could be grateful for one thing: in one form or another, he had survived the most vicious despair life had to offer. Not just survived, he had built a whole new life; and began once again to know success; and in recent times a frothing hysteria he suspected might actually be happiness.


THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1707857,00.html?imw=Y

Even as Kenya's President and main opposition leader launched negotiations aimed breaking their violent political impasse, the crisis reached a troubling new low with news that a recently elected member of parliament had been gunned down outside his home. At the same time, a new wave of ethnic violence has broken out across the country.

http://www.smh.com.au/news/world/kennedy-endorses-obama/2008/01/29/1201369072661.html

Senator Edward Kennedy has endorsed Barack Obama for the Democratic presidential nomination as a "man with extraordinary gifts of leadership and character" and a worthy heir to his assassinated brother, John F Kennedy, who is still revered among Democrats.

"I feel change in the air," Kennedy said in prepared remarks salted with scarcely veiled criticism of Obama's chief rival for the nomination, Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton, as well as her husband, the former president.

The support of Kennedy pits two influential Democratic families - the Kennedys and the Clintons - against each other. It increases pressure on Clinton, building on Obama's decisive win over the former first lady in the South Carolina primary Saturday.

Christmas In A Sex Shop

"As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."
Carl Yung

His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork.
Mae West

AMONG the men and women, the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else—not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I
am;
Some are baffled—But that one is not—that one knows me.

Ah, lover and perfect equal!
I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections;
And I, when I meet you, mean to discover you by the like in you.
Walt Whitman


The article he wrote, On Working In A Sex Shop, barely touched on the calamity which had had overtaken him at that time. A succession of journalists, all on their own usually alcohol fuelled downward spirals, had worked at that sex shop on Oxford Street, just near Taylor's Square. Prior to working in the sex shop, in an age before porn saturated the net and was everywhere in the culture, a click away, he had barely seen any. This was the mark of how far downhill he had gone, these tawdry environs reflecting how far his own dreams had decayed; how desperate he had become. Another journalist on the skids passed it on to him. That man, in by now a familiar pattern, had seen the light and was heading off to the country; to detox, to begin again, to find a love untainted by the corruption that coated every Sydney street. The traffic drove through his deepening despair. He sat above the cabinet full of dildos, a photograph existed somewhere still, pounding away at his portable typewriter, writing and writing as he always did. Even here, even now, he wrote his incomprehensible science fiction novellas and prayed to some filtered God of the derelict and the desolate. God is found more in extremity than in comfort, went the priest's line; even here, amongst the dildos.

He'd been awake for several days when the incident happened; scattered utterly to the four winds; hiding in dripping canyons of naked men, fat mountains lying in cubicles with white towels draped across their vast bellies; showers in the distance, the dripping of water that could be heard infinite miles away. Not just scattered to the four winds. Completely blind. Completely tortured. The dart like images snaking through his head; the grunt of ecstasy as men coupled in the gloom; he had known these places were there, even in childhood; the utter indifference of the coupling, the walls coated in slime. He'd hate to see this place in the daytime. And finally, even for them, the stop outs wired on the best speed in the country, it became time to go home. Well, if not home the sauna was shutting; the strays struggling out into the pre-dawn light. He said goodbye to whoever it was, and walked through his hallucinations. Not enough time to make his way down to Withering Heights and his favourite spot on the roof; instead he made his way through the Darlinghurst Streets, waiting for a cafe to open; his sweat drenched clothes hanging off him; the sadness snaking in between the washes of colour; oh if only it could end before things got even worse.

There had been so much hope, so much ambition; he had truly wanted to succeed. But now even that seemed a long time ago. Soon enough it was time to open up; and he made his way to Oxford Street sex shop; his only formal employ these days. Almost blind, he was hallucinating so badly, he struggled with the locks on the front door; and once through, bounded up the steps to turn off the alarm before it started, bringing unwanted attention to his shambolic state. He made it, turned the alarm off, and then turned to fix up the lights; and immediately there was someone behind. Startled, he jumped, and the man's smooth tones tried to calm him down. Just another punter. I have to fly back to New Guinea at lunchtime and I wanted to take something with me, he said.

He could never sell the blow up dolls, which were the most expensive item, or anything else really. His sale figures were always better than anybody elses for the simple reason that he ignored the customers completely. No one wanted an assistant disturbing their train of thought when they were making that difficult decision between Young Hung and Hunky and Barnyard Sex. The man wanted a dildo. Which do you recommend? He didn't recommend any of them; there was always plenty of the real thing.

He kept wishing he hadn't got himself into such a state; wondering if he could ever come back, wishing he had gone home for a shower at least. Finally, after considerable fuss, the punter picked out an enormous black dildo which would have to have satisfied the biggest slut on the planet. The man paid by credit card; and he struggled with the click clack machine; he could barely see; the colours swamping him, the cheap old magazines bearing down from the walls; merging into the cheap red carpet. Everything was so sordid. He couldn't believe he had ended up here. Finally the man, who after all had a plane to catch, took over for him, working the machine with far greater finesse than he could accomplish. Still, he could not see straight; everything kept shuddering down on him. And then the punter left, swinging the giant dildo over his shoulder, smiling happily as he went down the steep stairs: "I'll think of you when I use it," he shouted back up the stairwell.

And then the colours really did go into riot; and he tried to laugh at the insanity of it all, as he pottered around amongst the dusty crotches and insane gestures; the bestiality of what men found erotic destroying any mystical allure. The calamity of that job was over soon enough; and he wrote On Working In A Sex Shop to make light of the disaster that had overtaken him. But although he was to rally for a while, that shop was only one of the sign posts on a road to dereliction; and he could never have predicted the disasters that were to come. The abandonment of all hope.

THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.theage.com.au/news/world/bush-refuses-to-call-a-slowdown/2008/01/29/1201369134566.html

The Age:


PRESIDENT George Bush has asked Congress to pass quickly his $US150 billion ($A170 billion) economic stimulus package and to make his controversial tax cuts — due to expire in three years — permanent, as he delivered his last State of the Union address.

The speech concentrated on the economy, Iraq and Mr Bush's efforts to forge a peace deal in the Middle East — the issues that will shape his legacy.

But it also signalled that even with less than 12 months to go Mr Bush is not giving up on his domestic agenda.

He still wants Congress to: extend his "no child left behind" schools program; deal with unfunded liabilities in the social security system; act on climate change and energy security; and come up with a humane approach to millions of illegal immigrants.

Mr Bush's approval rating is in the low 30s, the lowest in his seven years in office. Only Richard Nixon's rating was worse at this point in the presidential term.


http://www.smh.com.au/news/world/troops-out-by-midyear-but-more-aid-smith/2008/01/29/1201369135155.html


THE Government has agreed to increase the number of civilian aid workers and other professionals to help with reconstruction in Iraq and Afghanistan, a move Australia hopes will demonstrate its commitment to the coalition effort as it withdraws its combat troops.

The Minister for Foreign Affairs, Stephen Smith, made the commitment on Monday as he stood alongside the US Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice, during his first official visit to Washington.

Mr Smith also met the Secretary of Defence, Robert Gates, and the Vice-President, Dick Cheney, and yesterday was due to meet the Democrat majority leader of Congress, Steny Hoyer, and the chairman of the Senate foreign relations committee, Joseph Biden. Mr Smith attended the joint sessions of Congress to hear President George Bush's State of the Union address.

Those Vincent Moments

This is me with Eddy, who I befriended in Pai when I was there for a few weeks last year. He was a very colourful character.


The path is narrow, therefore we must be careful. You know how others have arrived where we want to go, let us take that simple road too.

Ora et Labora, [Pray and work] let us do our daily work, whatever the hand finds to do, with all our strength and let us believe that God will give good gifts, a part that will not be taken away, to those who ask Him for it.

“Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold all things are become new!” [2 Cor. v.17.]

Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh
Paris, 25 September 1875

Too many beautiful things have been done too unusually well for me to prefer one to the other systematically. And the changes which the moderns have made in art are not always for the better; not everything means progress - neither in the works nor in the artists themselves - and often it seems to me that many lose sight of the origin and the goal, or in other words, they do not stick to the point.

Your description of that night effect again struck me as very beautiful. It looks very different here today, but beautiful in its own way, for instance, the grounds near the Rhine railway station: in the foreground, the cinder path with the poplars, which are beginning to lose their leaves; then the ditch full of duckweed, with a high bank covered with faded grass and rushes; then the grey or brown-gray soil of spaded potato fields, or plots planted with greenish purple-red cabbage, here and there the very fresh green of newly sprouted autumn weeds above which rise bean stalks with faded stems and the reddish or green or black bean pods; behind this stretch of ground, the red-rusted or black rails in yellow sand; here and there stacks of old timber - heaps of coal - discarded railway carriages; higher up to the right, a few roofs and the freight depot - to the left a far-reaching view of the damp green meadows, shut off far away at the horizon by a greyish streak, in which one can still distinguish trees, red roofs and black factory chimneys. Above it, a somewhat yellowish yet grey sky, very chilly and wintry, hanging low; there are occasional bursts of rain, and many hungry crows are flying around. Still, a great deal of light falls on everything; It shows even more when a few little figures in blue or white smocks move over the ground, so that shoulders and heads catch the light.

Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh
The Hague, c. 10 October 1882


How cruel had been those insights; the long, gentle afternoons when I sat on the back veranda of our large, character-filled share house in Adelaide, in love in every possible sense; with the shape of the magnificent gums against the sky, the mysteries of the creek at the bottom of the property, the stale, difficult old man who lived in the granny flat in the back garden; not Eddy but the name springs to mind; we, the students in the front house, fascinated by the call girl who came every Saturday afternoon. I can still remember the day when he tried to get me to look at porn with him. Those sort of things were always happening to me, even at this time, when I was in my early 20s; experiencing some sort of love rather than exploitation for the first time and far from interested in the chaotic interactions which had dominated my life. Here, once gain, we were fleeing the cyclone of Sydney; the physical wreckage I had created from the times when we knew our own answers; a time when our young love was pure and every friendship an adventure; a time before the stifling sadness of middle age had settled in and I knew what I wanted; excited to be.

I sat on that veranda and read Vincent van Gogh's letters; all of them, the three volume set; he was as good a writer as he was a painter; marvelled at the drawings I had never seen scattered through the letters; smoked joints, read the messages to Theo, watched the high gums settle into night; the arrival of the raucous cockatoos each evening; and here, these moments that transcended all other moments, the ones where we knew fully our own doomed artistic journey, where we sacrificed ourselves for art and could have known no other way, when the tortured artist was the sole identity that made all the misery and suffering worthwhile; those tasnscluscent, transcendent moments when consciousness was unconfined, when we weren't some frightened thing behind the shields but another, more triumphant creature all together. It was these rare moments, when I could feel the whole aching beauty of the world, every drop of water, every muffled domestic thought, within a kilometre radius. When I left my body and flew across the neighbouring suburbs. And nothing was going to stop me. Our destiny was great.

But these moments were rare; and involved much torment to get there. I can remember most clearly the most miserable of moments; living with the kids and their mother next to a railway line; after we had lost our house and the money - of which there had been quite a bit by our standards - had entirely gone. The binges had always ended badly, but as I got older they ended even worse; a cruel and disconsolate longing for an ordinary life; that crumby run down house by the railway line; where I churned out hundreds of pages of angst now moldering at the bottom of a box; and I could hear everything in that neighbourhood, see the night cats perched on terrace roofs; see the people sleeping and almost hear their dreams; hear the trains that regularly shattered the place in my aching loneliness, sadder than I had ever been. There had to be a way out of the chaos we had created: here at the end of the binge. But I couldn't think of anything, full of tears; sad at my own complete and total failure; the drug fueled rampage burnt out, leaving nothing but wreckage. And my dearly beloved children asleep; those two angels I had never wanted to hurt.

In the end it was them that led me away from the death march; because they didn't deserve the chaos we had inflicted on ourselves. We were surrounded by narking little pedants and cruel diseases; we could hear everything, the trains coupling at the nearby station, the shouts of the station master, the stirring of the early risers. I wanted so much to be happy. I wanted just to be an ordinary person. I didn't care about writing anymore; it had come to nought. I didn't care about journalism, it was just another job. I cared about those kids I had been put on the earth to protect; and thus it was that I found myself seeking help; away from the acid trails and the ancient melancholy; away from the crushing despair which had gained supremacy, into a different era where he no longer drank and his clothes no longer hung off him with heavy, alcoholic sweat. Away from the cruel times which had been his lot; onto an entirely different path. Halleluyah, salute the brave! We rise up, we conquer the average day, we became, for once in our lives, normal; skating out from under the tidal wave of dereliction that had been about to engulf us; me and my family, sheltering in the alcove, watcing the powerful, dangerous black wave rush by.


THE BIGGER STORY:

I predict nothing but trouble:

http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,23124056-661,00.html

THE Rudd Government has taken legal advice on possible financial claims arising from its planned apology to stolen generation Aborigines.

Indigenous Affairs Minister Jenny Macklin said yesterday she wanted the proposed apology to be above politics.

But this seemed unlikely: Opposition Leader Brendan Nelson declared the new Government's priorities should be hip-pocket issues such as petrol prices and interest rates.

The apology is expected to be the Government's first formal action when the new Parliament sits on February 12.

But indigenous groups plan to crash Mr Rudd's apology with a mass protest over his refusal to offer compensation.

Ms Macklin said an apology was imminent.

"We do want to make the apology as early as possible in the new parliament," she said.

She said legal advice sought by the Government gave it confidence that it would not be swamped with claims.

"All of the state governments have issued formal apologies in their parliaments, and there haven't been any legal ramifications as a result of those apologies," she said.

But up to 550 Aborigines are seeking legal advice, the Herald Sun has learned.

Lost Life And The Lives Of Others

"Heath is, and always will be, an Australian. He adored his home. His last two weeks with us over Christmas in Perth were just bliss. Heath did not become an actor for the fame or fortune. He loved his craft and he loved helping his friends. He loved chess and skateboarding too. My image of Heath in New York is him with his skateboard, a canvas bag and his beanie. That was Heath to me."
Kim Ledger, Heath's father.

Australia took a different step; a wave of confidence, almost excitement, gripped the country with a new Prime Minister. Partly it was just astonishment, a holding of the breath, a hope that nothing would stuff up, surprise that they hadn't made total fools of themselves. They took the reins as if it had only been a mistake, an historic accident, that they hadn't been holding them all the time. But the cracks began early. The sight of Rudd handing the NSW Health Minister Reba Meagher, widely hated and regarded as a total incompetent overlooking a rundown system her government had neglected for more than ten years, handing her with that pert superior little mouth and the fuck you glasses, a cheque for $50 million. That was it for me. $50 million of our hard earnt taxes, to use a cliche; talk about rewarding someone for their incompetence. Hopeless. Hapless. Long may they rot.

I used to see them driving by, ordinary people in their flash cars, and envy them so much their ordinary, healthy lives, while my own addiction plagued frame, glued together with pain and sickness, fundamentally sick from a tortured longing for oblivion, all these things were free to us, the giofts of suffering, not the triumphant pressure is a gift but the opposite end of the misery spectrum, the gift of desperation to change our unchannelled, unfocussed psyches, to capture the lives of others we so desperately wanted, to possess the clean clothes and fresh white underclothes, to smell not like a man who hadn't washed for days; although surely it was oinly yesterday he had braved a bath, immersed rapidly aging flesh into soup white like fear water; down with the fag flag cry the crackpots; and all that in a moment, as the handsome driver flashed a smile at his girlfriend, hidden in the car's resources and of no interest except as a prop. It was him I was interested in, he I envied. I wanted to be just like him, wrapped in a $60,000 young man's car, unaddicted, uncomplicated, full of a lust for life.

Instead, of course, he had become the creeping shadow dependent on the energy of successful people just to survive. We draped ourselves in the lives of others so easily; whether it be in a book, or a movie, or on the street. Or as in this case, just someone driving by. He had become the Uriah Heep of the late 20th century; someone who couldn't stay warm except at someone elses hearth; someone who found it alarmingly easy to excise himself from the occassion; and report things as if he had never been there, never been a participant. He was ideally suited to his trade, he thought, because in the end he wasn't there; and what had been there had atrophied, that naked scared little rabbit creature hiding behind the seven shields. The moves were disastrous, the times weren't right. He had no choice but to keep on going, one leaden foot before the next, a comfort to no one, a stranger to all. It wasn't just a matter of a "stranger in a strange land"; it was a receded depth march into the shadows; a total retreat of self, an abnegation of everyting possible. It's a nice day if you like that sort of thing; that common saying, the glass half empty or half full. It was always half empty; in the most despairing of ways. He couldn't laugh about it yet. Too much of his life had been wasted feeling miserable; convinced he had been born defective and there was no way to recover. Or remedy the faults. Transform the diseased psyche.

And then one day, suddenly, the world changed from evil glue, the substance of things no longer echoed with some wierd psychic gloom; and he heard the thought most clearly: what a beautiful day. If only it had happened earlier in his life; if only so much time hadn't been wasted in doom filled rooms. If only he had been a better example, and all his friends hadn't died. But here in the present, in the chirpy, cheerful, otpimistic beauty of the day, he couldn't help but smile. He had been reborn; and the new version was cohered into a single whole; and most astonishing of all, the new version was happy. He had never been happy, never wanted to be happy; nice day if you like that sort of thing; happiness was something for morons and lobotomy patients; not for a supposedly tortured intellect like him. But there it was, the frothy exultation over nothing in particular but the fact he was still standing; a single coherent whole, happy!!


THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/inquiries-cant-hide-flaws/2008/01/24/1201157559963.html

SMH

Andrew Clennell State Political Editor

THE Iemma Government is now officially in crisis.

There are special commissions of inquiry into both NSW Health and the Department of Community Services.

There is no confidence in either of the ministers running these portfolios, Reba Meagher and Kevin Greene, and Morris Iemma's tenure, not only as Premier but in his former role as health minister, is now under scrutiny.

This comes after the Tcard debacle, the constant announcement of reviews instead of action in key portfolio areas, continuing doubts about whether the crucial sale of the electricity industry will go ahead amid union opposition, continuing problems in transport, and the fallout over the Gibson-Koperberg affair.

Staff turnover in ministerial offices is high as aides flee to the Rudd Government in Canberra or jobs in the corporate sector, such is the dissatisfaction with the Government led by a man with a reputation as a ditherer.

For months last year in the wake of the Jana Horska affair at Royal North Shore Hospital, Meagher and Iemma trotted out the smug line in Parliament that there was a body that could look after the problems in the health system - the Health Care Complaints Commission.

There was no need for a more broad-ranging inquiry, they said.

Then they set up a bodgie inquiry into problems at the hospital headed by the Government-friendly Christian Democrat MP Fred Nile, who made sure the inquiry did not run too long. How silly those tactics look now.

It took one man - the deputy NSW coroner, Carl Milovanovich - to blow all of that out of the water with one sentence yesterday. When he delivered the words "It may be timely that the Department of Health and/or the responsible minister consider a full and open inquiry into the delivery of health services in NSW", the Government had been dragged kicking and screaming to an open inquiry by a 58-year-old who has obviously heard too much about the hospital system in his six years as a coroner.

Rituals Of The Tender Bar

A picture of the Dads On The Air radio team at 2GLF

"Champions take risks and pressure is a privilege". Billy Jean King to Sharapova on the eve of her finals match at the Australian Open.

"Bravery is being the only one who knows you are afrraid". Franklin Jones.

"It may take great courage to speak up to a brow beater after a long life of passivity. To expres our honest feelings may make us break out in a cold sweat... We need to stop resenting where we are and start loving ourselves for the daily courage it takes to suit up and show up. We deserve a new start and we can have it if we stop looking backward."
Larsen & Hegarty

The rituals were precious, the darkest rides, the darkest tides; those fleeting descriptions of moss caked walls; in recent days washed away by the luxuriant beauty of the harbour, the savage notion of our own death; the frothing hysteria which he thought might be happiness, so glorious was his sweeping soul, so beautiful was the harbour, the foreshores dense green, the luxury yachts and the antique vessels beating up the waves; the cluttered, chaotic, boat-filled harbour, the dense beauty, I come to you. It was Australia Day yesterday; and I went to a party at McMahons point, around from the northern end of the Bridge, and we snaked in fine exultation; as he smiled graciously through his flawed teeth and the other guests, stern left wing women bearing noble clauses and loneliness like cloaks, their most valuable relationships each other because they slept with no one; and he smiled and he shook hands and despite himself there was lust for the tawdry flesh; Baghdad Iraq land mine expert UN headquarters explosion killing dozens of her colleagues Polly living comfortably ever since on a UN pension Polly, me, almost comfortably in sobreity for once, while she, as always, grew louder and drunker and more opinionated as the night war on, drunk on fancy white wine. No ordinary conversation was possible.

How many fireworks can we have? Henrietta asked, when I told her on the phone I was sitting on the foreshore waiting for the fireworks to go off, the harbour limpid in the after light of sunset, the boats moving up and down, the business and colour of Darling Harbour in the distance, the city skyline etched out in light; the ultimate shades of blue and beauty ours, as I embraced everything, soaring happiness, delight in landscape, God in the branches of the old fig trees twisting up the sides of the sandstone cliffs, the multi-million dollar apartments secure havens, not just of wealth and privilege, but of value and morality, comfort and security; with the wealth came safety.

I read a book called The Tender Bar in Pai in Thailand last year, sitting on the veranda of a bamboo hut, watching the river and the ever-staggering landscape; about a boy who grew up in a bar; frothing to the surface of the mainstream when he briefly worked as a copy boy for the New York Times; and those austere and reproachful voices, of which I was so nearly one; and the lost voices because there was never any reason to be there; and those bars we had loved so much; which had been everything to us. Just as the bar in this lost in time suburb of New York had been everything to the author; I'm writing about you, he told the legendary denizens; and I, too, had tried to write about the bar now gone, the front bar of the Rex Hotel in Kings Cross, which had been everything to me as a youth - a source of money, of entertainment, of friends, and most of all, of alcohol.

But the book I wrote now mouldering in a box somewhere came out as a strange science fiction tale of decaying corrupt filaments flowing from the roof and the diseased, alien denizens who could not find a life of their own, our sterile hearts, the awful consequence of the invaders. Years after these events, I put the large number of pages of confused streams of consciousness up around the house we all lived in in Paddington, and tried to string it into a single story; and instead we all sat around and smoked so much hash we could barely move, and populated another bar, this time the one next door; and no one knew how utterly vulnerable we had been, how close us boys had been to each other as we accepted our jail bait status; how occasionally someone would drive us out to a party in the suburbs, more bait, and we would perform just by being there; magnificently beautiful because we had something they could never have: youth.

And we really did rely then, on the fundamental rule, the kindness of strangers. And we really did care for each other; in a way our contemporaries, in school uniform in school yards a million miles from us; in those remote places where happy families lived and people had futures.

And we would have all died together, fuck the sugar daddies, if only we had been allowed; if only the fountain had stopped flowing; if only we had been barred for being under age rather than courted for the clients who followed us. Didn't any one care? The offers came thick and fast. Oh, they cared alright, they would have done anything to be able to boast to their ancient queen friends that they had "had" us. And I drank and drank and drank and the bar disappeared in a black paste; and the tendrils of corrupt hands, stroking my young skin; they slithered from the roof and rose from the floor, dank, moss covered, and I shivered at the thought: somewhere else there was sunshine, in some distant place lay happiness; a different, unabused life. And we raised the glass from the line of drinks at the table, I couldn't keep up with the drinks they bought, and in the end, because every end of that disconsolate, deathly marginalised group was sad, we raised another glass, of beer, of brandy, of bourbon and coke; and we disappeared too drunk to stand, much less provide a service.



THE BIGGER STORY:

ABC:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2008/01/27/2147375.htm

Paddy McGuinness dies, aged 69

Former journalist and editor of Quadrant magazine Paddy McGuinness has died in Sydney, aged 69.

Mr McGuinness died yesterday at his home in Balmain in Sydney's inner west.

Mr McGuinness was a former editor of the Australian Financial Review and a columnist for several leading newspapers.

He recently stood down from editing Quadrant after 10 years at the helm.

http://www.theage.com.au/news/entertainment/ledgers-final-journey-home/2008/01/26/1201157739179.html

The Age:

FOR a man who in life was often at odds with the limelight, in death Heath Ledger found no reprieve yesterday.

In an anonymous pine crate, the Perth-born actor began his final journey home amid chaotic scenes, as photographers jostled with police outside a Manhattan funeral parlour.

Police were forced to hold back more than 50 members of the paparazzi and news crews as five employees from the Frank E. Campbell funeral home carefully loaded the crate into a black hearse. "Back up. Back up, please," a police officer yelled at swarming photographers.

Just hours earlier, Ledger's grieving parents Kim and Sally and older sister Kate arrived in New York from Perth to claim the body and attend a private memorial service. Ledger's former fiancee Michelle Williams, mother of his daughter Matilda, 2, also attended the service.

Yesterday the Ledger family and friends went public with their grief in death notices placed in The West Australian newspaper.

"My body aches for the sound of your voice, our chats, our laughs and our life and times together. Your truly varied artistic skills, insatiable desire to improve and eclectic abilities set you apart from any other person on the planet," his father wrote.

It is now five days since the Brokeback Mountain star, 28, was discovered by his masseuse lying unconscious face down on his bed in his Manhattan apartment surrounded by sleeping pills.

The mystery surrounding his death then deepened when the masseuse changed her story.


http://www.news.com.au/couriermail/story/0,23739,23112355-952,00.html?from=mostpop

News:

FAR away from the idolised lifestyle of a Hollywood star, tragic Australian actor Heath Ledger lived out his final days as a scruffy loner.

Drifting between acting gigs and fleeting visits from his beloved daughter Matilda, Ledger would wonder the Manhattan cobblestone streets alone, usually wearing ragged jeans, an old jacket and an unshaven chin.

When he returned to the SoHo apartment he rented for $26, 000 a month, a forlorn sight greeted him.

Apart from a few ornamental skateboards, the flat was more or less unfurnished.

Ledger slept on a mattress on the floor, sleeping pills beside his makeshift bed.

Calamity: The End of Days

"Every day is a good day for a mediocre man. He is always at his best."
A variation off Somerset Maughan.

"People will defend their own mediocrity to the death."
A common saying.

Henry James has a mind - a sensibility -so fine that no mere idea could ever penetrate it.
T. S. Eliot on Henry James

He is a mediocre man - and knows it, or suspects it, which is worse; he will come to no good, and in the meantime he's treated rudely by waiters and is not really admired even by the middle-class dowagers.
Lytton Strachey on E. M. Forster

Virginia Woolf s writing is no more than glamorous knitting. I believe she must have a pattern somewhere.
Dame Edith Sitwell on Virginia Woolf

Monsieur Zola is determined to show that if he has not genius he can at least be dull.
Oscar Wilde on Emile Zola

What a tiresome, affected sod.
Noel Coward on Oscar Wilde

The stupid person's idea of the clever person.
Elizabeth Bowen in the Spectator (1936) on Aldous Huxley

... stewed-up fragments of quotation in the sauce of a would-be dirty mind.
D. H. Lawrence on James Joyce

The best time I ever had with Joan Crawford was when I pushed her down the stairs in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?"
Bette Davis


The world was going to end in 1972. My mother kept the cupboards stocked in preparation for the end time. I grew up with an overwhelming sense of calamity; as if these truly were the end times. Work had me sitting in parks for a month meditating with the Falun Gong for a story on who they were, these funny little people sitting in parks all over the city. I said at the beginning: they're not going to run this, there's too much busines in China. No, no, we really want to know, they said; and thus it was that I came to understand their own notion that we really are living at The End of Days; that we will be enveloped in disaster and all will be nought. I remember 1972, a teenager but already well out of home; but waiting nonetheless for the end to come, partying literally in the belief that there would be no tomorrow. And if there was a tomorrow, it would resemble nothing like the days we had known.

Well so, in a sense, it came to pass. The present bears almost no resemblance to the past. Life prior to the computer is now almost impossible to imagine; and yet it's only been since the 1990s that it all really began to take off; and the world has been totally transformed. They will look back on this time just as we now look back on the Industrial Age, as a trans formative time. when the world and our social construction shifted on its axis, when things changed fundamentally for entire populations, where our understandings of who we are changed completely. Computers have done that. Social networking sites. The easy access to vast stores of information. Instant publication. Historic times. And back then, the musty water stored in bottles, get down on your knees and pray because the wrath of God is at hand; sinners, unbelievers, even the gay, the deviant, the wicked.

No wonder we sought some purity, there in the wicked light; the hippies dancing through ht e nights, whacked out on magic mushrooms. And I sat there with Henry at the tables in the main street, in the Nimbin which has changed from a tiny little picturesque dairy town on the north coast of NSW to the dope capital of Australia. And I said: I was here in 1972 for the Aquarius Festival; and he looked, interested, as if looking at a bit of history. That must have been amazing, he said; and I could remember, walking down those lanes with the mist crowding in all around, the magic mushrooms which everyone was taking adding depth and mystery to the clammy bush, the archaic tents, the little groups of gypsies and that ancient feel; that here, as we celebrated at the end of days, the world's psyche was moving into something else, becoming something else; here in Nimbin, which was one of those places like Goa and Pye and Zanzibar, I think, where all the lei lines are meant to meet and hippies come from all the world to be at.

And 30 years later, when the world hadn't ended and the calamity hadn't happened and instead we had grown into middle aged men, we sat thinking of coffee and watching the shenanigans in the street; the rapid street deals, the colourful shops; the tawdry breakdown of what had once been a universe of hope; and wondered now, what had it all meant, that festival of 1972 that was meant to change everything. For years I had been friends with one of the founding organisers Johnny Allen, and for years it really did seem as if we had changed something; as if it had all been worthwhile. I've lost touch with him, now, and sitting here, literally 35 years later, watching the tourists streaming in and out of the colourful shops, the rapid-fire deals, the plain clothes police watching events from further down the street, too clean cut to be anything else, and sitting here with Henry laughing at our own pasts, it was impossible to say we had achieved anything at all. My own kids thought hippies were some tragic stoned sub-species of losers; and as for the music of the era we had loved so much; you've got to be joking! So much for the profound legacy we had thought we were passing on.


THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.nimbinweb.com.au/nimbin/history/history2.htm

In 1972 scouts from the Australian Union of Students came to the village and persuaded the Nimbin Progress Association to allow a festival to be held here. Johnny Allen, Graeme Dunstan and Paul Joseph organised a celebration of the dawning of the `Consciousness' and `Protest' movements in the heady days of the Vietnam war, free love and marijuana - a festival of discovery .... It lasted 10 days and marked a watershed in Australian popular culture. Many decided to stay and bought up the cheap land available, settling in to a new lifestyle.

Although it could be said that now Nimbin is "A Living Theatre" it remains an enigma, an energy, a process that some think could be outside the normal parameters of everyday living.

The new Settlers
After the Aquarius Festival of '73, the 'alternatives' had different problems to face but many common threads were there. Left with only a portion of the original forest, they were certainly much more careful with what remained! Twice they stood up to the Police and Authorities to save what was left at Terania Creek in 1979 and Mt. Nardi in 1982 and won out substantially.
A strong contingent of local 'Greenies' have been active ever since then, helping to save our heritage in other parts of the country - not without criticism and controversy.

However, it must be said that the population of Australia (and also overseas) are now much more aware of the issues at stake, partly due to these early protests and to the general lifestyle centred on Nimbin itself.


n early September in August 1972 Johnny Allen and I, two paid organisers for the Australian Union of Students, arrived at Main Arm valley, outside of Mullumbimby in northern NSW, to talk up and find a site for a festival in the region.

We had driven directly from the August conference of AUS in Melbourne where we had won approval for the idea of presenting the 1973 biennial intervarsity arts festival as a kind of counter cultural expo.

For six years the student movement had been protesting war and conscription and we knew what we were against. The 1973 Nimbin Aquarius Festival was to be a celebration of the possibilities of peace in the bush and far, far away from the campus and city symbols of authority, which we had been for so long in reaction.

The festival was to be in the May and for reasons of warmth, our search was directed northward but not so far north as to cross the border into Belkje land. We had heard of the nascent hippie settlements behind Mullumbimby and the surfie idylls of Byron. We expected interest and maybe sympathy with our project. Out of sense of fraternal respect, and because it was the only address we had, Upper Main Arm was our first port of call.

Cold was our reception at the late Colin Scattergood's house. We seemed to have walked into something at once proto hippie and feudal; hackles were raised and the drawbridge drawn. Yes folks, even then.

It was my first experience with that aspect of the rural counter culture that is about hiding amongst trees in very big back yards; that is about being invisible and anonymous, and growing cannabis to pay the bills and living with the paranoia, social isolation and dysfunction that goes along with all that.

The worldview of we Aquarians was diametrically opposed. One more flood of inspired passion in the perennial traditions of utopians, we were a band of dreamers setting out to build a city on a hill. We aimed to illuminate the counter culture of the times and we had come with the experience years of public place student theatre and protest organising to do it. We wanted not only to be visible to each other, but visible to the world.

Graeme Dunstan

In The Pines

In the pines in the pines
Where the sun never shines
Where we go running when we want to hide
Away from the sky away from the light
Where the overgrown branches conceal what's inside
In the pines in the pines
Where I take my bride

No place is darker
And no place more still
We make love in the pines
In the shadow of the hill
I'm left with your name
I'm left with your form
Left with your scent
Even left with your moans
And I'm left in this fine and private place
In the pines in the pines
We meet face to face

In the pines in the pines
Where the sun never shines
Where we go running when we want to hide
Away from the sky away from the light
Where the overgrown branches conceal what's inside
In the pines in the pines
Where I take my bride.

www.thetriffids.com


In the pines, in the pines, where we make love all the time. A radical Christian group has said they will demonstrate outside Heath Ledger's apartment or his funeral; allegedly for his role in promoting homosexuality in Brokeback Mountain, a movie I particularly loved; and the group at believe it or not God Hates Fags dot com, have gone down like a lead balloon in Australia, where no one could care less who did what to whom. Australia has always been a free wheeling country, and while the left like to blather on endlessly about tolerance, in the end creating their own tyranny of diversity that has kept us captured locked down and free of independent thought, locked in the mines. Here in the Communist Republic of Australia, they would have been shut down long ago for vilification.

The Vilification laws have gone too far here, jailing Christian priests, for instance, who have dared to say that Islam is a violent religion, but the bile these people are putting out defies belief.

In the pines, love all the time, sun dappled on his long lean body, those afternoons at his parents house; and now, 30 years later, with our souls and our bodies falling apart from age; these fond memories replay like love poems, conscience gone and love lost; blond pubic hair and flat stomachs, the ache that was to settle into the heart of our being not even a glimmer on the horizon. Our craziness, those wonderful bars, his PhD on the Cactus Patch in Adelaide, The Glamour and the Grot: Towards an Ethnography of the Gay Bars of Adelaide; all the nights where we partied into the dawn and alcoholism hadn't even been thought of, when I went walking through the deserted nurseries in the Adelaide hills, picking daffodils and jonquils to sell around the office blocks, often alone, sometimes with a partner in crime. I was always thinking of ingenious ways to make money. I was always happy. Where I take my bride.

I didn't know, I had no idea, these would be the happiest days of my life. It was all about the future, the things that we would do, the books I would write, the careers we would build. In these days when everything was an adventure; when no one could resist, when the room gasped on entry and the attention was his due, when he went south looking for love; under the trees along the banks of the Torrens, when even the Christian boys who held back finally succumbed; when it was an easy, automatic thing, after the chaos and decay of Sydney, to retreat here to the City of Churches, Adelaide, the capital of South Australia, then even more isolated, afloat on a different island, than it is today. It was a 20 hour drive across the corner of the country, through the Riverina and the Hay plains, and there was always company, he was always wanted. And he was seeking love, there in the unsophisticated, uncorrupted south, where the boys had never sold themselves and the looks weren't those knowing, diseased, not well dear looks of the Sydney queens, but fresh faced and handsome, open in the dry heat; grasping pleasure he was happy to provide.

The Australia he knew was entirely different to the one that played out in the mainstream; and there could be nothing wrong with the honestness of our desire. Before he grew old, in the pines, in the pines.

THE BIGGER STORY:

Hard to believe:

www.godhatesfags.com

Established in 1955 by Pastor Fred Phelps, the Westboro Baptist Church (WBC) of Topeka, Kansas still exists today as an Old School (or, Primitive) Baptist Church. We adhere to the teachings of the Bible, preach against all form of sin (e.g., fornication, adultery [including divorce and remarriage], sodomy), and insist that the sovereignty of God and the doctrines of grace be taught and expounded publicly to all men. These doctrines of grace were well summed up by John Calvin in his 5 points of Calvinism: Total Depravity, Unconditional Election, Limited Atonement, Irresistible Grace, and Perseverance of the Saints. Although these doctrines are almost universally hated today, they were once loved and believed. Even though the Arminian lies that "God loves everyone" and "Jesus died for everyone" are being taught from nearly every pulpit in this generation, this hasn't always been the case. If you are in a church that supposedly believes the Bible, and you are hearing these lies, then your church doesn't teach what the Bible teaches. If you care about your never-dying soul, you will carefully read every word of this web site, along with the entire Bible.

WBC engages in daily peaceful sidewalk demonstrations opposing the homosexual lifestyle of soul-damning, nation-destroying filth. We display large, colorful signs containing Bible words and sentiments, including: GOD HATES FAGS, FAGS HATE GOD, AIDS CURES FAGS, THANK GOD FOR AIDS, FAGS BURN IN HELL, GOD IS NOT MOCKED, FAGS ARE NATURE FREAKS, GOD GAVE FAGS UP, NO SPECIAL LAWS FOR FAGS, FAGS DOOM NATIONS, THANK GOD FOR DEAD SOLDIERS, FAG TROOPS, GOD BLEW UP THE TROOPS, GOD HATES AMERICA, AMERICA IS DOOMED, THE WORLD IS DOOMED...




Perceiving the modern militant homosexual movement to pose a clear and present danger to the survival of America, exposing our nation to the wrath of God as in 1898 B.C. at Sodom and Gomorrah, WBC has conducted over 33,000 such demonstrations since June, 1991, at homosexual parades and other events, including funerals of impenitent sodomites (like Matthew Shepard) and over 200 military funerals of troops whom God has killed in Iraq/Afghanistan in righteous judgment against an evil nation. America crossed the line on June 26, 2003, when the Supreme Court (the conscience of the nation) ruled that we must respect sodomy. WBC teams have picketed all over the United States, and internationally (including Canada, Jordan and Iraq). The unique picketing ministry of Westboro Baptist Church has received international attention, and WBC believes this gospel message to be this world's last hope. .


Here's some of the stuff from their picketing of soldier's funerals:

St. Rose of Lima Catholic Church 100 Bishop Manogue Dr. St. Rose of Lima Catholic Church 100 Bishop Manogue Dr. This is for the funeral of Army Sgt. Sean M. Gaul. Buried with the burial of an ass, all of these soldiers are bowing down to the Sword because they have taken fire into their bosom and mixed gall- POISON- into the Cup of God's Fury, which they are drinking heavily (Jeremiah 25:15-16). You can't fight for a nation of fags and their enablers without the Wrath of God, without "knowing the Judgment of God" (Romans 1:32). Deuteronomy 29:18 Lest there should be among you man, or woman, or family, or tribe, whose heart turneth away this day from the LORD our God, to go and serve the gods of these nations; lest there should be among you a root that beareth gall and wormwood (POISON!); Deuteronomy 32:32 For their vine is of the vine of Sodom, and of the fields of Gomorrah: their grapes are grapes of gall (POISON!, their clusters are bitter: Job 20:11 His bones are full of the sin of his youth, which shall lie down with him in the dust. 12 Though wickedness be sweet in his mouth, though he hide it under his tongue; 13 Though he spare it, and forsake it not; but keep it still within his mouth: 14 Yet his meat in his bowels is turned, it is the GALL of asps within him. 15 He hath swallowed down riches, and he shall vomit them up again: God shall cast them out of his belly. 16 He shall suck the poison of asps: the viper's tongue shall slay him. 17 He shall not see the rivers, the floods, the brooks of honey and butter. 18 That which he laboured for shall he restore, and shall not swallow it down: according to his substance shall the restitution be, and he shall not rejoice therein. 19 Because he hath oppressed and hath forsaken the poor; because he hath violently taken away an house which he builded not; 20 Surely he shall not feel quietness in his belly, he shall not save of that which he desired. 21 There shall none of his meat be left; therefore shall no man look for his goods. 22 In the fulness of his sufficiency he shall be in straits: every hand of the wicked shall come upon him. Psalms 140:3 They have sharpened their tongues like a serpent; adders' poison is under their lips. Selah. Romans 3:13 Their throat is an open sepulchre; with their tongues they have used deceit; the poison of asps is under their lips: America is Doomed, for going the way of Sodom and Gomorrah, and it shall be worse for America than it will be for the Sodomites, to wit: Mark 6:11 And whosoever shall not receive you, nor hear you, when ye depart thence, shake off the dust under your feet for a testimony against them. Verily I say unto you, It shall be more tolerable for Sodom and Gomorrha in the day of judgment, than for that city. Amen.

01/26/2008 11:00 AM - 12:00 PM Jacksonville, NC Camp Lejeune Lejeune Blvd & Hargett St. This nation is full of angry rebels against the Lord God of Hosts. These marines are a microcosm of those rebels. You kill, rape, commit adultery, serve every filthy lust, worship a rag-tag, bloody, fag-flag, and in the same breath demand God bless you. How arrogant are you! You are worse than Sodom and Gomorrah! You had them for an example, who were destroyed in flaming fire and "suffer[ed] the vengeance of eternal fire", and yet you continue in your stiffnecked persecution of God's Prophets, the humble servants of God at Westboro Baptist Church. God has given you the dead marine girl, and that rapist/murderer, and that other freak who is soliticing sex with a 16-year-old minor! There is nothing you freaks will not do! There is no moral compass, moral decency; it's all out the window, and because you have violently persecuted us, God is blowing you up with I.E.D.s. Praise God, for his mercies endureth forever. Amen.

The Seven Shields

He burned the candle at both ends
so his years were few
But, of what a beautiful flame he made

Alfred Lord Tennyson


Heath Ledger has died and everyone is very sad. Brokeback Mountain was one of those movies you either loved or hated and I loved it; seeing it three times. His almost "father-in-law" Larry Williams, Michelle Williams father and grandfather to the two-year-old now fatherless Matilda, lives here in Sydney and is fighting extradition back to the US over some share trading charges. Larry's won the heart of journalists by being affable and forthcoming, rather than telling us all to get nicked; which is what a lot of these people do. F off you vultures. It's another funeral today, Trevor Drayton in the Hunter. He's been very critical of the media for their insensitivity to his family in their coverage; so it's going to be another wonderful day. Like the day the Bandidos buried one of their chapter leaders, and the media were strictly forbidden. Always good at getting into places where I wasn't meant to be, I sat quietly amongst some of the most fearsome bikies you're ever likely to see, all of them in full regalia in honour of their mate; and when I stood up at the end my reporter's pad clattered to the ground. I stooped down to pick it up, and was out of there before anyone had the chance to muscle up.

The snaking belts led to a trail through the years; severely distorted self-image and the shields behind which I lived. The theory was that if the first one collapsed, there was another behind; to a depth of seven. It was impossible to get to me. Have a shot, go on, have a shot. There was no one there. He had stepped behind another screen. The comfort of adventure, the comfort of words, the facade which faced the exterior world, it all worked so well. Shattered to the four winds, as I so often was, in the early dawn, the self-talk all about survival and the staggering beauty of the landscape, as I crouched on the top of city buildings and watched the sunrise light up the harbour, picking out Fort Dennison and the islands in the centre, illuminating the cascading richness of the coves and the extreme wealth of the houses. I used that phrase again recently; quoting Australian playwright David Williamson: no one in Sydney wastes time worrying about the meaning of life - it's to get a harbour view. And here I was, crouched in these alcoves only I knew how to find, watching the harbour change from night to day in a myriad of colours: and I used to wonder, why isn't anyone else up here?

And then one day it all collapsed; the shields which had protected me for so many decades. And behind the shields was a scared, atrophied little thing; a rabbit skinned alive, screaming and running around in circles after someone threw a bucket of hot water over it. And then it vanished; and the old self was no more, just like that. The modus operandi was gone; 44 for men and 40 for women, it often seems. The ways that we operated, the things that kept us going, our means of survival, of interacting with the world, for some reason that was the age beyond which they did not work anymore. You see it all the time; man, 44, bundled into back of police van after embezzling millions from the casino, woman, 40, arrested, screaming; man, 44, arrested, fighting, theft, lunacy. The patterns of addiction could only survive so long; the human form could only survive so long; and after that they either adapted and changed; or they died. Too many died.

All my friends died, well most of my friends died, often well before the 40/44 mark; and I was left alone to bear witness; that we had at least lived; that these times had been ours, the universe ours; those staggering views from the building we called Gotham City, or Withering Heights; that the great tumult, the almighty shout; the cosy embrace; the physical crush; the courting with insanity that was part of us, the group of mad young queens who were going to change the world and instead died young, clutching the shreds of careers and remnants of personalities, shivering in corners as the withdrawals kicked in; dear God be kind, just this once. And in those days, the shields were working perfectly; a pretty boy, a glittering heart. And in those mornings, the world lit up with shafts of acid light, I would take the lift to the top floor, climb past the blockades through on to the forbidden roof; and watch the night turn into day, and wonder, truly wonder, why isn't anyone else up here, why aren't there people like me on top of all the buildings, watching the sun rise above the sea? It was all so beautiful.

THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/la-na-heath24jan24,0,3236767.story?coll=la-home-center

It will be at least 10 days and perhaps two weeks before officials can determine what killed actor Heath Ledger, found in a Manhattan apartment on Tuesday, a spokeswoman for the New York medical examiner's office said today.

An autopsy of the 28-year-old Australian actor was inconclusive, Ellen Borakove, a spokeswoman for the medical examiner, said in a telephone interview. The additional time is needed to perform toxicology and other tests, she said.

The body is likely to be released sometime today, she said.

Ledger, nominated for an Academy Award for his portrayal of a cowboy's tragic homosexual affair in "Brokeback Mountain," was found lying naked at the foot of his bed in a SoHo apartment that he was renting. Prescription sleeping pills were nearby, police said.

http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,23095733-661,00.html?from=mostpop

A GALAXY of movie stars are mourning actor Heath Ledger, describing him as one of the best actors Australia has produced.

Acclaimed actor Geoffrey Rush paid tribute to Ledger's talent and sensitive side.

"This is such a sad event. I admired Heath enormously,'' said Rush, who starred with Ledger in the hard-edged Aussie flick Candy.

"He was such a sensitive and committed and daring actor. This is truly a tragedy. I send my condolences to his family and friends and colleagues."

http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,23099380-661,00.html

HEATH Ledger was battling drug addiction and depression in the lead-up to his tragic death yesterday.

The acclaimed actor was found naked and unconscious in his $26,000-a-month Manhattan apartment, surrounded by prescription anti-anxiety and sleeping pills.

Ledger's parents, Kim and Sally, and his sister, Kate, said his death was a terrible accident.

"He was a down-to-earth, generous, kind-hearted, life-loving and unselfish individual who was an inspiration to many," his father said outside the family home in Perth.

New York police sources said the signs pointed to either an accidental overdose or suicide.

Ledger, 28, reportedly spent several days at a drug rehabilitation clinic, battling an addiction to heroin, after his split from fiancee Michelle Williams in September.

The Belts Snaking Out

"APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers."

TS Elliot


Out of the dead past struggled many images; and always the most vivid of those, throughout life, were the belts snaking out towards me as I ran sobbing around the house, my parents, both of them at times but usually my father the cruelest, belting and belting and belting. I was a different child, my head perpetually buried in a book, and the belts, I guess, were a way of making me more normal, or a way of punishing me for being different, or smarter. My father rarely read anyting and my mother was buried in the bible. At fifteen I would come home on a Friday, change out of my school uniform and disappear into town, taking that long long bus ride from the isolated beach suburb where we lived into a world where at least I was wanted, jail bait. Often I would come home at three or four on a Monday morning before school; and there would be my father with the belt laid out on the kitchen table, waiting for me, the sadist, and I would be belted once again, with all the tears and distress. And my mother silent in the background; because he was boss. How I hated that man, how I wished him dead.

The worst of it was one day when they demanded that I say sorry over something or other that I had done. I think they wanted me to say sorry for being out without permission on the weekend. I wasn't sorry, and I wasn't going to lie for them, and I wasn't going to stand still for a belting, not this time. And so they chased me around with their belts, both my mother and father, trying to hit me, the belts snaking out as I ducked and weaved, and ran around the house, I'm not sorry, I'm not sorry, the belts flailing at me, until they cornered me, and they hit me and hit me and hit me, as I tried to cover my face and the belts rained down. And It went on and on and on, as they hit me and hit me and hit me, until I finally surrendered, desperate for it to stop, and said, alright, I'm, sorry, but I'm not really. And then the belting really started. And finally they were done; and I sobbed quietly in the corner. And that was it for me. I never trusted them again. I was never naive enough to love them again.

And throughout life, I never ever wanted to feel anything, because to feel something was to be hurt. And thus began the cruel road that was my destiny. I built in my mind the many walls that would protect me; shielded behind barriers so that no one, absolutely no one, could get to me. The minute I turned 16 and could legally leave, I was gone from that horrible house where I had been so dismally unhappy and been so badly treated. The school, being a public school, didn't even ask why one of their top students was leaving. I walked down that road which had wound around the hillside into my worst fears, crying, that day, distressed and sad and afraid, ignorant of how I would survive. Although as I soon discovered, 16-year-old boys can always survive.

The other day, early Saturday afternoon, I was running around doing a a few odd jobs, and thought I would duck back in via my house to pick up some sunglasses, and to incidentally check on my own 16-year-old son, who was having some friends over. They were sitting around the lounge room, playing Monopoly, laughing. And I looked at them, startled by the innocence of it all. They seemed so happy, so innocent; and so young; and yet that's the same age when I was already out of home; and by 1.30 on a Saturday afternoon, I was always drunk in the Rex Hotel in Kings Cross; drunk and sometimes maudlin, but always drunk.

THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.news.com.au/couriermail/story/0,23739,23094705-952,00.html?from=mostpop

EMERALD'S Nogoa River was yesterday a swirling, churning inland sea hundreds of metres wide, with dozens of low-lying businesses and homes flooded in the Central Highlands town.
The river, which is swollen with the spillover from the Fairbairn Dam 16km away, did not quite reach the 15.5m peak expected, instead fluctuating between 15.2m and 15.4m.

Water continued flowing over the dam spillway at record heights, hitting 4.4m late in the afternoon, well above the previous record of 2.82m in 1984.

http://www.theage.com.au/news/world/an-ordinary-new-zealander-who-did-extraordinary-things/2008/01/22/1200764265337.html

IT WAS sombre, but not cripplingly sad. There were a few tears, but laughter as well.

Dignitaries sat shoulder to shoulder with monks, hearing about a national hero and a loved grandfather.

Sir Edmund Hillary's funeral in Auckland yesterday managed to span the breadth of who he was.

"An ordinary New Zealander who did extraordinary things" was how Dean of Christchurch Peter Beck described the perception of Hillary.

It neatly captured the spirit of a service that was a celebration of 88 years of a life lived to the full....

It was funny seeing Peter Hillary, his son, who I met in the Himalayas by coincidents more than 30 years ago, up on the television screens, now a middle aged man:


Peter Hillary talked of the "compulsory curriculum" of adventure that came with growing up in the Hillary clan, where pending school holidays meant "a growing apprehension — even fear — about where Dad was going to take us".

The grandchildren and step-grandchildren told of "Grandpa Ed", with 20-year-old Sam Mulgrew talking eloquently about the shared fun even up to the last few weeks, when Hillary was booked into hospital under the name of Vincent Stardust.

"Ed, it was an honour and a privilege to have known you so well. The many hours that we have spent together will remain with me for the rest of time," he said, his voice breaking with emotion.

Long-time friend Jim Wilson said that for Hillary life and adventure were effectively indivisible and he retained his "little boy enthusiasm" throughout his adult years.

The service also focused on Hillary's legacy. Miss Clark said few could emulate his strength but all could strive to match his humanity.

Peter Hillary said the death of his father was the moment to "keep the commitment and love alive" and fulfil his work for the Sherpa people.

Hillary's coffin was placed in a hearse, which was driven onto the streets of Parnell, where thousands had gathered to farewell Hillary. Quietly and then steadily, applause broke out among the crowd as Hillary made his final journey.

THE PRESS

Desperately Beaten Froth Hope

Hey, when a man turns bad
it`s a well known fact
you don`t go giving him a bucket of compliments
behind his back
you don`t go laying traps for him
you cannot detect his scent
you cannot set your dogs on him
they won`t go where he went

Though his eyes may have been scored out
and his face is full of pits
He's bloodless, still rides for you
and he`s grating at the bit
Oh

When a man turns bad
you don`t want to know a thing
you can see it in the way that his hand shakes
as he pours himself a drink
he won`t take pleasure giving you the time of day
can`t walk in a straight line
just takes him a shot of bitumen
take a shot of turpentine
Oh

When a man turns bad
you can smell it on his breath
He has to fix himself up one in the morning
just to get him out of bed

When a man turns bad
it`s written on his wrists
gets a sudden fidgetty urge to kiss you baby
but he`s eating away at his lips

When a man turns bad
he don`t want no friendly advice
phone off the hook, not available for comment
better punch out the lights, sugar and spice, now

When a man turns bad
when a man turns bad
when a man turns bad
You can tell by his hair
he looks like he`s looking at a crack in the ceiling
or a nameless point somewhere
and in fact he`s seeing him a vision
in fact it`s a kingdom somewhere
where the lamb lies down with the rabid dog
and the dog don`t care

When a man turns bad
you can see it in his stare
looks like he`s looking at a crack in the ceiling
or just a nameless point in the air
in fact he`s seeing a vision
in the back of the kingdom somewhere
well the lamb lies down with the dog
and the dog doesn`t care

In fact he`s seeing a vision
in fact it`s a kingdom somewhere
where the lamb lies down with the rabid dog
and the rabid dog he don`t care

When a man turns bad
it`s a well known fact
you don`t go giving him a bucket of compliments
behind his back
you don`t go laying traps for him
you cannot detect his scent
you cannot set your dogs on him
they won`t go where he went
they won`t go where he went
they won`t go where he went

David McComb, The Triffids.

In the pines, in the pines, in the aftermath of our distant lives, a million miles from the froth that was Hollywood and ancient distances from the centre of things. We were so moved, it was such a splendid thing; and the compliments did flow and the world did turn on its axis. One of the city's most famous bars, Barons, has closed down; the days when our bodies could stand the pace and there was nowhere else to be but our bar, our cafe, our universe; and we draped our laughter and cynicism across the footpaths; you'd look pretty in a dress, the old drag queen said, trailing her fingers across my yet to be shaven face.

And the room I lived in, next to the incinerator, cheap because of the hole in the window, dark because I had painted the roof black with red splotches; the budgies living out there lives in the corner; the Frenchman, handsome I suppose, they all were, who came and had his way; and the evolving circumstance of everything: I couldn't stand it anymore. I misted up immediately at the first orchestral wave: this our lives, these our desperately loved songs; we were so moved; so much of our lives had passed unlived; our minds in neutral, the television always on in the corner, distracting us from any real thought. And at the end, we knew we were failures, we knew we were on the run, we knew that our lives operated not just outside the law, but outside decency. The only fruit was madness and too many had gone. I wanted desperately to be liked; and spoke to no one. How did that work?

The egg dribbled down his chin. This one's gone to God, we can only be kind. The full days, in the intervening years between the flash of youthful hope and the decay of middle years, and the death from liver disease, an old junkie in Calcutta. You used to be a journalist? the man asked, in disbelief. Generations of junkies had died here; they would say anything. They had all wanted to be something; they all made up stories of their past achievements, to illuminate their present decay, to pretend to have been something, someone. The French abandoned themselves on the subcontinent; the British, less often but often enough, the Americans never. He had driven through these very same streets on the back of a motorbike across the Calcutta's famous Howrah bridge, where we used to buy smoko from the vendors in the early hours; and this world was ours in this unique place. Of all the places he had been, he had chosen here to die; his head full of memories and his heart full of grief; and the smack not working as his body ceased to function. Those dawns, so long ago, he had never been happy, but, but... It had all been such an adventure. So much he had written, to so little end.

THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.boudist.com/archive/2007/10/24/last_drinks_at_barons.php

Last Drinks At Baron's

Like many of the character rich old joints in the Cross it's being demolished to make way for a new multi storey development.

I'm sure most Sydney drinkers would have some hazy memories of a night spent surfing the lounges of the dimly lit bar.

I remember being taken there as a 17 year old, sipping Midori Illusions with my workmates and trying to learn backgammon. On another night I recall being asked to leave once dawn hit after spending the night canoodling with my first girlfriend. This was before the times you needed to buy some garlic bread downstairs in order to drink upstairs.

Google News:

Rudd swamped by calls for cash
NEWS.com.au, Australia - 5 hours ago
KEVIN Rudd faces intensifying pressure from community groups for billions of dollars of new government spending, despite his promise of an austerity budget ...
PM's inflation scheme 'will hurt economy'
The Australian, Australia - 5 hours ago
KEVIN Rudd's plan to build the budget surplus to fight inflation has been criticised on the grounds that too much intervention could harm the national ...

Rudd hits accelerator on plan to attack traffic congestion
The Age, Australia - 6 hours ago
Prime Minister Kevin Rudd and Treasurer Wayne Swan with gifts they received at a business breakfast in Perth. TRAFFIC congestion in Melbourne, ...

Surplus will not keep lid on rates
Sydney Morning Herald, Australia - 6 hours ago
KEVIN RUDD'S new target for the budget surplus is unlikely to stop the Reserve Bank raising interest rates next month should inflation figures due tomorrow ...
Fiscal symbolism has its place, but this isn't it
Melbourne Herald Sun, Australia - 5 hours ago
KEVIN Rudd's fiscal hairychestedness has important symbolic resonance. Both internally, to the party. And externally, to the broader community. ...
Rudd's inflation plan
Sky News Australia, Australia - 5 hours ago
Prime Minister Kevin Rudd has addressed a meeting of business leaders in Perth, outlining his five point plan to tackle inflation. Mr Rudd's plan includes: ...
Election spending exempt
Courier Mail, Australia - 6 hours ago
ALL election promises would be quarantined from the Rudd Government's razor gang, which is looking for up to $5 billion in additional spending cuts before ...
Transport heads efficiency list
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By Malcolm Farr THE Government will create a national body that is designed to fight inflation by making Australia run more efficiently. ...
New plan to tackle 'inflation problem' left by Howard: PM
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Prime Minister Kevin Rudd has rejected Opposition claims his new plan to halt inflation will have little effect. Mr Rudd today unveiled a five-point plan to ...

Rudd takes aim at inflation
CNN International - 15 hours ago
CANBERRA, Australia (AP) -- Prime Minister Kevin Rudd declared Monday that inflation is the most pressing domestic challenge to Australia's economy and ...

A Vast And Intense Lyricism

"I'll finish with some lines of poetry in memory of those heroes from the land of Hijaz, the land of faith, from Ghamid and Zahran, from Bani Shahr, from Harb, from Najd, and we pray to God to accept them all, and in memory of those who came from Holy Mecca, Salem and Nawaf al-Hazmi, Khaled al-Mihdhar, or those who came from Medina, the radiant, who left life and its comforts for the sake of 'There is no god but God'.

I testify that these men, as sharp as a sword,
Have persevered through all trials
How special they are who sold their souls to God
Who smiled at Death when his sword gazed ominously at them
Who willingly bared their chests as shields.
Though the clothes of darkness enveloped us and the poisoned tooth bit us,
Though our homes overflowed with blood and the assailant desecrated our land,
Though from the squares the shining of swords and horses vanished,
And sound of drums was growing
The fighters' winds blew, striking their towers and telling them:
We will not cease our raids until you will leave our fields.

Peace be with you and all God's mercy and blessings.

From Messages to the World
The Statements of Osama bin Laden.


This is, by any standards, an astonishing age; when so much is available, at the touch of a keyboard, on television, from the corner shop; when even this week for instance, I can watch some of the world's best tennis players at the Australian Open; the astonishing Roger Federer versus Janko Tipsarevic match which went to five sets and a tie break in the fifth and was probably the best tennis match I've ever seen; from that to American Gangster, a wonderful movie I absolutely loved; to last night, watching the reformed Triffids Concert, A Secret at the Heart of a Song. How haunting was that, how wonderful, many of the most famous names and talents in Australian music at the rundown Metro Theatre in George Street.

I had free tickets after a story I wrote; initially for last Friday. Stuck in the Hunter after an explosion in one of the vineyards in the Hunter which killed two men and left another with 80% burns in a serious condition in hospital; and had to after some fuss get them changed to Sunday. I rang Polly, the woman who was in the bomb blast at UN headquarters in Iraq and lives on a now very comfortable UN pension in New York but has acquired an apartment in Sydney, in the morning, waking her up, and with some sense of achievement told her I had managed to change the complimentary tickets for that night. $60 a ticket, definitely worth getting. Not to mention that this was a piece of history, one of the country's most magnificent bands reformed after the death of their lead singer David McComb; the series of concerts the first time they had played in Australia in 18 years.

But Polly, taking me back, wasn't that enthusiastic and decided in the end she didn't want to go out. You don't want to see The Triffids? That made no sense. And then Virginia Fay; someone I had first met 30 years ago; the saint in our crowd of amateur disasters, popped in to my head and suddenly everything clicked into place and it was all meant to be. She'd been playing their albums and wishing she could get a ticket and wishing she could go, lighting a candle in their memory; and when I rang out of the blue after not having spoken for two or three years; it was too good to be true. And it was such a great night, just absolutely wonderful. Started at eight and it was heading on to twelve when we left; the bar open and the 80s fans and people our age, who remembered and had loved them for real; we were all mixed up in the crumby, rotten Metro.

And here was genius.

I couldn't help remembering those days when I had loved them the most, when their masterwork, the album Born Sandy Devotional, was stuck permanently in the tape deck. When the ramshackle old maroon Triumph I loved so much, after I "borrowed" $30,000 cash in circumstances I once wrote a book about that no one seemed to find very interesting; and I clattered across the inland, through floods and across the gibber desert, with The Triffids blaring in a perfect echo of the Australian landscape. And love and life and adventure were all ours; and I was on the run, yet again, nine lives already up; but this was our time, our destiny, our music, ourselves; all in perfect sync with the wide wide world.

THE BIGGER STORY:

www.thetriffids.com

Well the drums rolled off in my forehead
And the guns went off in my chest
Remember carrying the baby just for you
Crying in the wilderness

I lost track of my friends, I lost my kin
I cut them off as limbs
I drove out over the flatlands
Hunting down you and him

The sky was big and empty
My chest filled to explode
I yelled my insides out at the sun
At the wide open road

It's a wide open road, it's a wide open road.....

How do you think it feels
Sleeping by yourself?
When the one you love, the one you love
Is with someone else

Then it's a wide open road
It's a wide open road
And now you can go any place
That you ever wanted to go